


all happy families are unalike

by resistate



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Found Families, Magic Realism, Romance, Softness, background Tessa Virtue/Scott Moir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 11:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resistate/pseuds/resistate
Summary: ‘It was good to have a joke like this with Pat, even if it was about murder; it was good to be able to play with him after all this time.’





	all happy families are unalike

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anneweaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneweaver/gifts).



> For the most lovely @/dubreuillauzon. This is all her fault.

 

Marie-France buys the gloves for Pat the first December they’re back in Montréal. They’re wandering arm-in-arm down rue Ste-Catherine, enjoying the fresh, crisp air, when Marie-France’s eye is caught by a display of coats in a window across the street. She squeezes Pat’s arm to indicate the change in direction and waits impatiently for the light to change so they can cross. As they get closer Marie-France realises she’s been to this store before. It was called something different then, she thinks, and something different yet again the time before that, but it’s the same location. It’s a small property, set further back from the street than its larger, more established neighbours. The first floor may change hands frequently, but Marie-France is pretty sure the adult store on the second floor is a fixture.

She and Pat stop outside for a minute so Marie-France can get a better look at the window display. She can tell at a glance that everything inside is going to be outside their budget. The coats perched jauntily on the mannequins have that one-of-a-kind look that would make them more at home on rue Sherbrooke. Pat looks at the display too, and Marie-France can tell he’s making the same calculations she has. Then he looks at Marie-France’s face. ‘Shall we?’ he asks.

They shouldn’t, of course. They don’t have to get anything; they can just look, but the problem with this plan is that Marie-France has never been all that good at resisting temptation. She resolves to be strong, however. Setting up your own business is expensive, and they don’t have a lot of money to spare, and there’s going to be a baby soon. Marie-France rests her hands on her stomach, taking the time to be thrilled. Pat places his hands over her own and they stand there, appreciating the moment. Then they go inside. A bell chimes as they enter, and Marie-France smiles because musically the bell is very pleasing. Marie-France could give anyone who asks a list of stores in Montréal rated according to how pleasing their door chimes are. No one ever does, except Pat, but she could.

The store is small, just two adjoining rooms with ladieswear in the front and menswear in the back. No one else is in the store aside from a young woman standing stiffly behind the register. She looks coolly at Marie-France and Pat, but Marie-France just smiles at her beatifically because of course she and Pat have as much right to shop here as anyone. There’s not enough floor space for much to be done with the layout but she’s happy that the current proprietor has left more room to get by between tables than most. Marie-France has been inside this property many times but rarely has it felt so—serene. The floors and walls are clean and white but the sunlight coming in the front windows makes the shop feel cosy rather than stark.

Blouses, skirts and trousers hang against the walls on white wooden hangers and small piles of folded sweaters are perched neatly atop plain white tables. There’s a turquoise sweater that would be lovely for Marie-France’s mother, but Marie-France can tell at a touch that it’s out of her price range. A quick glance at the tag confirms it. She replaces the sweater and wanders into the back room, her eye drawn to a display of cufflinks. Perhaps something small for Pat’s father.

She and Pat have some ideas about what to get their families, but nothing concrete. They’ve decided it suits them both to wander about today and see what they can find. Their plans for each other for Christmas are more precise. They had discussed putting the money they would have spent on each other back into Gadbois but had decided in the end that they could afford to be indulgent on a small scale. Marie-France is very particular, so she has picked out exactly what she wants and Pat is going to buy it for her. There is romance in Pat’s soul, of course, or Marie-France would not be madly in love with him. But he’s as practical as she is when it comes to things like this. If they had money to burn, Pat could get her any old thing, and Marie-France would adore it, and then she would go out and get what she really wants. Pat has also picked out what he really wants and Marie-France is going to buy it for him, and then they will wrap their gifts for each other and put them under the tree and open them on Christmas Eve and be overjoyed. It’s a sensible plan.

There’s a door in the back room that Marie-France has never noticed before. It’s slightly ajar, and perhaps that’s why Marie-France doesn’t remember ever seeing it. Perhaps it’s always been there, and it’s just never been open when Marie-France has been about.  Perhaps. She can see a set of stairs inside the door, leading down, and naturally she is curious.

‘I’ll be one moment,’ she murmurs to Pat. He nods distractedly, his attention on the display of cufflinks. The stairs are wood, painted white, and they creak under her feet. Marie-France trails her hand along the wall, looking for a light switch. She finds one as she reaches the bottom of the stairs and flicks it on. Another room of the store stretches before her. Marie-France is surprised that the light was not already on, because surely keeping your wares in the dark cannot be good for business. The woman upstairs must have forgotten to turn the light on when she started for the day. Or perhaps it’s on a timer. Perhaps the store is not established enough to get a lot of foot traffic even this close to Christmas. Stores on this property don’t ever seem to last very long, Marie-France knows. The room is clearly the store’s version of a bargain basement. The tables are closer together and less attention has been paid to aesthetics than in the upstairs rooms. The walls are a dingy grey and there isn’t any natural light. Everything has that rummaged-through look that reminds Marie-France of shopping at Sears and La Baie with her mother when she was a girl.

She spots a table piled high with hats, scarves and gloves and she makes her way over, nudging some tables aside to widen the aisle. She lingers on a very pretty scarf that would go well with a great many things already in her select wardrobe, but she moves on. Pat is going to buy her an even prettier blouse she has on layaway at Simons. Marie-France doesn’t need a new scarf or even a new blouse. Pat, however, needs gloves. She’d noticed again this morning that his are getting dreadfully threadbare at the tips.

The men’s gloves are uniformly dull and unstylish, however, and Marie-France wonders how long some of this outerwear has been in stock. Since the eighties, she would guess, even though the store has been here about eight minutes by Marie-France’s reckoning. The gloves are stiff cloth or stiff synthetic leather or stiff, scratchy wool. They are all clearly of lesser quality than the items on display upstairs.

Then Marie-France’s hand falls on something different, on gloves that are soft and supple against her fingertips. The store is chilly, and Marie-France has felt no need to unwrap her scarf or unbutton her winter coat. But the gloves are noticeably warm to the touch. They are very ordinary looking leather, being just a plain brown, so dark as to appear almost black. But that colour would go very well with Pat’s clothing choices, thinks Marie-France. The gloves are classically cut and appear to be brand new, which surprises Marie-France, because they don’t feel brand new. She hesitates, gloves in her hand. Marie-France is getting Pat a model car for Christmas. And their child, of course, but Pat is also giving their child to her, so. She thinks collecting model cars is a ridiculous thing to do, but it makes Pat happy so she is very in favour of it. Pat needs gloves. They don’t have to be a Christmas gift.

There is only one pair of gloves like the ones Marie-France is holding, in just the one size. She roots through the piles to be sure, but there definitely is only the one pair. She eyes the gloves critically. She is very familiar with Pat’s hands; for years he had for work to touch her all the time, and now that he is her husband he touches her at least as often. She thinks the gloves will fit Pat. She examines the stitching and notes that there is no manufacturer’s tag though the gloves are clearly good quality. There is no price tag either, which gives Marie-France pause. However, it cannot hurt to ask.

She takes the gloves upstairs. At first Pat is nowhere to be seen but then Marie-France spots him outside on the sidewalk, talking on his phone. The dour woman behind the counter is gone. Marie-France frowns, because there is nowhere else in the store for the woman to be. Marie-France has just been in all the rooms. Perhaps she is in the washroom. Perhaps—

‘May I help you?’

Marie-France doesn’t jump, because she is going to be a mother and already she is in training, and because she is married to a man who thinks that stealth is a manner of being which everyone should embrace. She turns to see an elderly gentleman dressed in a suit and tie. His waistcoat is smart and crimson red. Marie-France approves. The man moves so he is standing behind the register and holds out his hand. Marie-France passes him the gloves.

‘How much are these?’ she asks.

The elderly gentleman does a very careful inspection of the gloves that mirrors Marie-France’s own examination. She hadn’t seen him in the shop earlier. She wonders where he came from. Perhaps there was a shift change while she was downstairs. Perhaps—

He sets the gloves down gently on the counter.

‘That man outside, he is your husband?’ he asks. ‘Ah, there is no need to answer, I can see by your smile that I am correct.’ He continues to look at Marie-France. ‘And this child is your first, yes?

The elderly gentleman is very like the avuncular businessmen Marie-France’s father occasionally brought round to the house when Marie-France was a child, so she doesn’t take as much offence as she could at being asked such personal questions. ‘Yes,’ Marie-France says.

He nods, like she’s confirmed something he already knows. She supposes he could have deduced this by the fact that Marie-France and Pat don’t have any children with them, but she’s still a little unsettled.

‘The first of many,’ the elderly gentleman says. ‘You and your husband will have a large family, as large as your love for each other.’ He takes a sheet of cream tissue paper from underneath the counter and sets the gloves carefully on top. ‘Larger, even, I think. Five dollars,’ he says. His voice is creaky but decisive.

Marie-France stares. There’s no way on this green earth the gloves she picked out for Pat are worth as little as five dollars. Part of her wants to whip out her wallet, plunk the cash on the counter, grab the gloves and run. But the part of her that is a small business owner cannot do that to another business owner. Marie-France feels instinctively that this man owns the store. She could be wrong, she supposes. But she doesn’t think she is.

‘Are you sure?’ she asks.

The elderly gentleman pauses in wrapping the gloves and lifts first one, then the other, from the tissue paper. He repeats his earlier inspection. Then he looks very carefully at Marie-France, in a way that seems more intense than it had earlier. She tries not to bristle, because Pat really does need gloves.

‘Ten dollars,’ he says.

Marie-France is not a stupid person. She gets out her wallet and carefully counts out ten dollars plus tax.

 

They go out to lunch at one of their favourite delis, because they need to eat but also because this shopping trip is doubling as a date. Honestly, Marie-France’s whole life sometimes feels like an extended date with her favourite person in the world, even though technically she and Pat have been married for almost two-and-a-half years.

Pat had eyed the paper bag with the string handles that Marie-France had carried out of the store, but he hasn’t yet said anything. Marie-France knows he must be madly curious. She swings the bag jauntily every time it looks like Pat may have forgotten she has a secret purchase. Thérèse at the diner greets them by name and shows them to a booth by the window.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?’ asks Pat once they’ve ordered. Pat gets the soup of the day and a sandwich and Marie-France gets minestrone soup and a garden salad. Marie-France could go outside of her comfort zone and compose poetry about the minestrone soup in this place but luckily for everyone all she has to do is eat it.

‘I’m going to do better than that,’ Marie-France informs Pat.

‘Oh?’ says Pat. He’s smiling his smile that means he’s intrigued. It’s one of her favourite Pat smiles.

‘Give me your gloves,’ Marie-France says. Pat does. Marie-France examines them to make sure they are in as bad a shape as she remembers. They are, and she gets up and throws them in the garbage can. She sits back down across from Pat.

‘You got me new gloves,’ says Pat. He’s looking at her with a soft expression, and yes, his exceedingly fond smile is also one of her favourite Pat smiles.

‘I got you new gloves,’ Marie-France agrees.

‘And now I have to wear them,’ says Pat, looking significantly in the direction of the garbage can.

‘Well, otherwise you would refuse to open them until Christmas, and you need new gloves right now,’ points out Marie-France.

‘Let’s see these gloves then,’ says Pat.

Marie-France passes him the bag. Pat unwraps the tissue paper very carefully. He pulls out the gloves and examines them. When Pat looks up at her, his eyes are very serious.

‘Marie—’

Marie-France shows him the receipt.

Pat’s expression changes from serious to puzzled. ‘How?’ he asks.

Marie-France shrugs, because some things are just unknowable.

Pat tries the gloves on. They fit perfectly.

‘You are lucky,’ he says.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Like I don’t know exactly the size of your hands. Also, I knew the gloves would fit. Do you like them?’ she asks. She realises Pat hasn’t said yet whether he likes them. Perhaps throwing his old gloves in the garbage had been a rash move.

‘I love them,’ Pat says, flexing his hands and watching the leather stretch and settle around his knuckles.

After lunch, Pat ducks into a used bookstore around the corner and gets Marie-France a novel he thinks she might like. Because he’s Pat, he gives it to her right away and Marie-France feels a twinge of guilt about teasing him with the bag earlier. When she reads the back cover her guilt vanishes, however, because Pat is a fiend who has picked something that is a hundred percent guaranteed to make her cry. She knows that he knows that she’s partial to books that make her feel the strongest of emotions. She also knows he’s picked this one on purpose, for revenge purposes.  If Marie-France’s momentary guilt is replaced by a surge of affection for her husband, well, that is only to be expected, really.

 

Marie-France gets her blouse for Christmas, and Pat gets his model car, and on Christmas Eve they get Billie-Rose who is the best gift of all.

They’re glad their daughter has come into the world when she has because Montréal is their home and they adore it, but Montréal in the winter is serious business. Marie-France and Pat both grew up here, but winter is an adjustment again after living abroad to train for so many years.  They’re glad Billie-Rose gets to acclimatise to a true Montréal winter straight away, but it does make life with a baby in tow more difficult because besides keeping Billie alive they have always to protect her from the weather. They take Billie to Gadbois that first winter and everyone falls in love with her. Marie-France knew they would. She is, after all, the most perfect baby in existence.

Marie-France doesn’t get to finish the novel Pat bought her as a not-Christmas present until May, when Billie starts sleeping through the night and Marie-France starts getting more sleep as well. But Pat wears the gloves Marie-France bought for him all winter. Marie-France takes photo after photo of him with Billie outside in the snow and inside at the rink and makes everyone she knows look all the time at her two exceptional people. When spring arrives, Pat continues to wear the gloves at the rink. He wears them in the autumn when he goes overseas with their teams. Next season he and Marie-France will start alternating so that sometimes Pat will stay at home with Billie while Marie-France travels, but this season Pat is doing all the travelling. Marie France looks forward to next season but at the same time she can’t imagine ever being away from their daughter.

In December she and Pat go Christmas shopping, and Marie-France cannot believe Billie is almost one year old. They take her out with them in the morning, Marie-France wearing the Snugli with Billie in it, and Marie-France’s mother comes and picks up Billie at lunchtime so she’s not out in the cold all day. She and Pat stroll down rue Ste-Catherine after lunch and Marie-France bounces on the balls of her feet when she realises they’re in the area of the store where she bought the gloves for Pat. She hasn’t had time to go back since; she’d completely forgotten about it, in fact. But the store is no longer there. There’s another store in its place with a banner across the front window saying it’s celebrating its grand opening and all furniture is up to 50% off.

Marie-France and Pat go inside but all that the man behind the counter can tell them is that he’s renting from somewhere Marie-France recognises as one of Montréal’s top property management companies. He thinks he remembers the people there telling him that they’d bought the property in October when the bookstore that had been on the site previously had gone bankrupt. The same adult store is still upstairs, and it’s not a bad one as far as these stores go, so she and Pat pay them a visit while they’re in the neighbourhood. It’s not a visit either one of them regrets.

Their second Christmas with Billie is even better than the first one. They have everyone over from the rink who can’t get home, and Pat and two of their seniors take over the kitchen while Marie-France and the others decorate the tree and the house and entertain Billie. It’s one of the best days Marie-France can remember.

In March, Pat travels to Nice for Worlds. Marie-France works from home the afternoon of the free dance, catching up on paperwork. All she wants to do is make good skaters into better skaters, but there is so much administration sometimes. Billie, bless her socks, is napping. Marie-France has too much work to do to watch all the programmes—she’s been off work frequently this spring because Billie, poor little soul, has been poorly—but she keeps the television on in the background. The trade for watching everything now would be getting less sleep later and sad as it is this is a bargain Marie-France is no longer willing to make. She does give their teams her full attention, of course.  And Pat. He is on her television for two seconds looking very serious, watching one of their teams perform from behind the boards. His arms are crossed and he looks very handsome and very tough, which is of course not his true character. He is strong, and strong-willed, but that is not the same thing as being a hooligan. Marie-France notices he’s wearing the gloves she got for him and is pleased.

She messages him after the last of their skaters have performed and he calls her an hour later, after he’s taken care of their teams and she’s given Billie her supper. Billie talks to Pat for a bit and the sounds she makes are all complete nonsense, of course, but Pat swears up and down he understands every word Billie says. Then it’s Marie-France’s turn.

‘I saw you on television looking like you would commit a murder,’ says Marie-France. ‘I think it’s the gloves, you know? You look like a henchman in those gloves.’

‘I’m your henchman,’ Pat says, ‘For you, I would commit as many murders as necessary.’

‘I should not encourage this,’ Marie-France says. ‘Because of course murder is not tenable. But I will not lie and say I am not pleased.’

Pat laughs, and the conversation turns to much pleasanter things, such as when exactly Pat is expecting to arrive back in Montréal.

 

Marie-France finds the gloves in her suitcase at her first competition away from Pat and Billie. She unpacks as soon as she arrives at her hotel room, hanging her clothes and making a mental note of anything that needs to be pressed. The leather gloves she didn’t get Pat for Christmas are tucked into the side of her suitcase next to her toiletries bag. It was tradition now for her and Pat to go Christmas shopping together and get each other a small gift to be opened immediately. It was a chance for them to be the one picking out a gift, they’d decided. Marie-France likes the tradition, especially since they continue to request specific luxuries for each other’s official presents. Even though what they both truly want every year is a sister or brother for Billie, though that seems increasingly unlikely to happen.

Marie-France picks up the gloves and walks over to the window. She pushes back the net curtain to see the view. It’s not much, but it’s sunny out and that always makes everything better. And Billie and Pat make her so happy and are such a comfort. And she has her work, of course, and her skaters. Really, Marie-France cannot complain.

The gloves make her think of Pat, which is the reason he has tucked them into her suitcase, of course. She’s excited to be travelling again, and so happy to be able to support two of their teams at this competition. Still, she misses Billie and Pat. It’s odd to be at a competition abroad without Pat, really. She idly pulls one of the gloves on, looking out at the way the late afternoon sun makes the buildings across the street glow. Pat’s glove is not going to fit her, of course, but wearing it will be almost like Pat’s hand here in hers. Marie-France pauses, startled. The glove feels snugger than she had expected. She glances down and finds that it does fit her.

It fits her perfectly.

She stares. Holds the other glove, much bigger than the one she’s wearing, next to her gloved hand. Tries it on. It shouldn’t, it really, really shouldn’t, but that glove fits too.

Marie-France takes off the gloves, places them carefully on the end of the bed, and goes to see how her teams are settling in. They’re excited, and nervous, and Marie-France remembers so well the times when she experienced these feelings with Pat. She reminds each of their skaters that they have the other person in their team there to support them, and that they’re all here to support each other. They all go out for an early dinner, and the first thing Marie-Frances does when she’s back in her hotel room afterwards is try on the gloves. She takes them off and puts them on again four more times. Then she takes off the gloves and calls Pat.

‘You are a sorcerer,’ she tells him when he picks up.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then Pat’s warm, agreeable voice says, ‘Tell me more.’

‘First you made me fall in love with you even though we were not supposed to be in love off the ice’ Marie-France informs him. ‘Then you made me want to marry you, even though I swore up and down I would never marry anyone, ever. And now you have—’ Marie-France searches for the right word. ‘Yes, “ensorcelled”. You have ensorcelled your gloves that I got you so that when I put them on they fit me perfectly, and when I take them off again they are the size of your huge hands.’

‘You love my huge hands,’ says Pat.

‘Of course I love your hands,’ says Marie-France. ‘That is not the point I am making.’

‘I wondered where my gloves had gone,’ says Pat.

Marie-France sits down on the end of the bed, deflated. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I thought perhaps you had put them in my suitcase so I would see them and think of you.’

‘I didn’t,’ Pat says. ‘But I wish I had, if it would be a reminder of how much I adore you.’

There’s a pause. ‘You don’t sound happy though,’ Pat ventures. ‘You are concerned about the gloves, yes?’

‘You believe me?’ Marie-France asks. It’s an absolutely ridiculous claim, she knows, that Pat’s gloves fit her, bolstered only by the fact that it’s a hundred percent true.

‘Of course I believe you,’ Pat says. ‘You are my wife.’ He says it like that explains his leap of faith.

Their telephone connection is a good one, but Pat still sounds too far away.

 ‘I love you,’ Marie-France says. She settles on the bed, her back against the headboard.

‘I love you,’ Pat says. Another pause. ‘I feel I should add that I am not a sorcerer, however. Surely I would know if I were a sorcerer. And definitely, I would have told you, and you would know.’

‘And also, sorcery isn’t real,’ Marie-France points out.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Pat says.

‘Oh?’ says Marie-France.

‘Well, but also you made me fall in love with you,’ Pat says.

He does have a point. His point does not, however, explain the gloves. Marie-France resolves not to let it bother her. She is fine and Pat is fine. Their teams are fine. Billie is fine. Perhaps there are some things in life that cannot be explained. Some magic, some mystery, something beyond themselves. Perhaps something like the energy on which she and Pat used to draw before each performance when they were still competing. Something innocuous, something benign. Something between just the two of them, and that, Marie-France reminds herself as she gets ready for bed, is no bad thing.

 

After Marie-France’s first competition away, whenever one of them travels for work they take the gloves with them. If Marie-France is away, Pat leaves something for her in her suitcase, and Marie-France does the same for Pat when he is away. Sometimes it’s a note or a letter or a bar of dark chocolate or other small treat. Pat is very partial to ginger biscuits and Marie-France finds some at Sobeys shaped like hearts that she often will hide for him in his suitcase. Also, Marie-France starts borrowing Pat’s gloves from time to time when they’re both at home. They’re still Pat’s, because she bought them for Pat, but sometimes she can’t find her gloves on her way out the door because really, Marie-France is very busy, her life is exactly like a whirlwind most days and very often she cannot take the time when she gets in the door to do as little as one thing at a time. Her gloves end up wherever she is when she has a chance to take them off, and Pat’s are always right there in the same place, and Marie-France feels very little compunction. Pat has many pairs of gloves, but only one pair that fit Marie-France. Pat never complains, and in fact Marie-France suspects he enjoys that she sometimes wears something that so properly belongs to Pat. He will not admit it, because in his own way he teases her as often as she teases him. But Marie-France has a very strong suspicion.

 

There’s one February they’re all ill, Marie-France and Pat and sweet small Billie, and Marie-France is so exhausted and run off her feet that she only has time to cram one of her scarves in the side of Pat’s carry-on before he leaves for the airport. He calls her half a day later when he arrives, full of cold and sounding exhausted. Marie-France listens to him put on a brave face and is no longer even a little bit jealous that he gets to be away from the house of people being ill because he doesn’t even have his family with him. ‘I have your scarf though,’ says Pat, and he sends Marie-France a photo to show her it’s wrapped around his neck. He sounds completely despondent, and Marie-France’s heart hurts for him, because normally he is stoic. She hadn’t even been thinking of keeping Pat warm when she put the scarf in his bag, she’d just grabbed the closest small thing that would remind Pat of home. Not that she and Pat are ever far from each other’s minds, but this is one of their traditions now. Traditions are important to Marie-France, but only the ones that mean something. Pat agrees. It is hard to be apart and still maintain the closeness and companionship they both put time and effort into nurturing when they are at home together with Billie. Something tactile and expected but also unexpected was good for Marie-France to find in her suitcase and she knew from talking to Pat that he felt the same way. They speak every day when they are apart, and they do like their own space, both of them—they are alike in this regard though they are different in so many others—but the days she is reunited with Pat and they are together with Billie are absolutely the best days.

She wishes she could be there with Pat, but she does the next best thing. She texts the most sensible person on the team Pat’s with, and he texts back right away to say that he and his partner are already on the case. Marie-France is glad that Pat is with people she can trust to take care of him.

She watches the ice dance free dance competition that evening, curled up on the sofa with a mug of noodle soup from a packet that Marie-France’s mother would be horrified if she knew existed. She has boxes of tissues and fleece throws and pillows and blankets and Billie sleeping heavy against her side. The soup and some orange juice had been brought by earlier in the day by one of their junior teams which Marie-France had thought at the time was very suspicious as those two were not known for their thoughtfulness. They were young and careless, in fact. It came to her later, after she’d woken up from a nap, that it was very like Pat to give them the opportunity to demonstrate that they too could be thoughtful when it came down to it.

Marie-France takes a sip of noodle soup and brushes Billie’s soft hair off her sticky forehead. Their senior team who have just come off the ice had performed very well, and Marie-France had tried to watch with her coaching brain, but she knows she will have to watch again when her brain is less fuzzy and take notes. For now, she sets her empty mug on the coffee table and burrows further into her blanket. She watches blearily as Pat and their team wait for the scores. Pat is wearing his henchman gloves and he has her plum-coloured scarf wrapped around his neck, ends tucked neatly inside his jacket. It is rather disconcerting to see Pat wearing something that is not a neutral. Even more disconcerting is the fact that he is not even trying to find the rhythm of the song playing as they wait. But he is smiling, though he looks tired, and that is something. Marie-France lets her eyes drift shut once the scores have come and gone and the next team is taking the ice. She falls asleep taking comfort in knowing their team has come within half a point of their season’s best, and Pat, at least, is warm.

 

Billie is absolutely her father’s child. Not a sorcerer, or even a sorceress, but definitely part fey. They’re walking home from Billie’s school one winter’s day and while Marie-France has been content up until now to let Billie dawdle and daydream and take her time, the sun has gone behind a cloud and the wind has picked up and she and Pat are going out tonight, to a charity gala. She does need to get home at some point. Normally Billie gets a lift home with one of the other parents but Marie-France had taken the afternoon off work to do some birthday shopping for Billie and some Christmas shopping for Pat, so she’d arranged to pick Billie up today. She shoves her gloved hands deeper into her pockets and waits for her daughter to catch her up.

Marie-France had grabbed Pat’s gloves when she’d left the house that morning because she couldn’t find her own. She’d expected to find she’d left them at the rink but they weren’t there, not that Marie-France could see. So she’d worn Pat’s all morning at work and Pat had teased her by asking her who she was planning to pick off. The answer was no one; all their skaters have good energy and are team players otherwise she and Pat would not have taken them on. She had reminded Pat of this, and he had just smiled significantly and raised an eyebrow at Marie-France’s gloved hands. It was good to have a joke like this with Pat, even if it was about murder; it was good to be able to play with him after all this time. They had had such fun playing together on the ice back when they were still competing. Now they have such fun working together and such fun as a family, and also they have quite a lot of fun still, just the two of them. Things are hard sometimes, of course they are, but overall it would probably be a sickeningly sweet life if not for their henchmen gloves.

The gloves she’s gotten for Pat six years ago are in suspiciously good shape. They aren’t fading or showing any signs of wear or tear. The leather has softened and become suppler, that is all. Still, they had started in the past year or so to wear them only sparingly. They want the gloves to last. Marie-France has gone through three pairs of winter gloves since Billie was born and Pat is on his fourth pair. She doesn’t know how he is so hard on his gloves, really. They usually saved the henchmen gloves for competitions now. They still tried always to leave something for the other in their suitcase, but one time last season things had been so hectic that Pat had completely forgotten. He’d left a voicemail confessing everything before Marie-France had even landed, and she’d just laughed and reminded him that she had the gloves in her carryon. Also, now that Billie is older they sometimes travel together to competitions, she and Pat. It reminds her a bit of their competition days expect that she now she misses Billie terribly when they’re away.

Now, Marie-France looks at the time and calls for Billie to hurry up. Billie runs up alongside her and Marie-France sticks her hand out automatically so they can walk together. Billie’s hand doesn’t feel as bulky in hers as it should do, though, and when Marie-France glances down she sees her daughter’s hand is bare.

‘Where are your mittens?’ she asks.

Billie shrugs.

‘You had your mittens when we left your school,’ Marie-France says. ‘You had your mittens even at the last crosswalk.’ Marie-France twists to look behind them, but all she sees is bare sidewalk sprinkled with salt and veined with ice where the pieces of concrete are joined.

‘I might have given them to the monster who lives in the sewers,’ Billie offers, and Marie-France has to hide her smile because they had just gotten Billie new mittens and it is far too cold outside for her to be pulling stunts like this; she should not be encouraged in any way. Also, monsters in the sewer? She is absolutely Pat’s child.

‘Or did you drop them down the storm grate?’ asks Marie-France.

Billie appears to consider this. She now has both hands scrunched up inside the sleeves of her jacket, the cuffs dangling.

‘One of them,’ she admits.

Marie-France establishes that Billie still has her left glove and she gets her to put this one back on. ‘You know what, cabbage?’ adds Marie-France. ‘I want to you wear this glove.’ Marie-France takes off her right glove and hands it to Billie. Honestly, Marie-France doesn’t know why she’s even surprised anymore but she nonetheless finds herself sucking in a breath when she sees that the glove has moulded itself perfectly to Billie’s small hand.

Marie-France sticks her bare right hand in her pocket and walks hand-in-hand with Billie the rest of the way home. Pat greets them at the door, which throws Marie-France until she remembers he’s left the rink early so he can get ready for the gala tonight. Sure enough Pat has his suit on already minus the jacket. He hugs Billie and leans in to kiss Marie-France but stops when she gives him a look. She glances down at Billie’s hands and Pat’s gaze follows. When his eyes meet Marie-France’s moments later they’re wide with shock. Billie has dropped to the floor and is playing with the dress shoes Pat has lined up along the floor of the hallway. Marie-France can see at a glance which ones will be best with the suit Pat is wearing, but Pat, sadly, has never had this talent.

‘Mama, why is Papa wearing those clothes?’ Billie asks. It’s sweet how she knows already not to bother asking her father anything about clothing. Marie-France is still looking at Pat when she replies, ‘Because your father cares a great deal about my wellbeing.’ Her breaks into a smile then, but he still looks worried. Marie-France can’t help but be a little worried too, to be perfectly honest.

 

Later, after they’ve come home and paid the babysitter and made out on the sofa in the living room like teenagers and had sex in their queen-sized bed like adults, they talk about it.

‘I think it’s fine—’ Pat says at the same time Marie-France says, ‘I’m not worried—’

She sags against Pat, relieved that they’re on the same page. He holds her close and strokes her hair. ‘I mean, _we’re_ fine,’ says Marie-France.

‘And it was minus ten today,’ says Pat. Marie-France is glad he agrees that Billie needed to wear _something_ on her hands. ‘It’s too bad she’s given up on those mittens on strings,’ says Marie-France.

Pat laughs. ‘She is stubborn like her mother, yes?’

‘Perhaps,’ concedes Marie-France, rolling over and turning off the bedside lamp. ‘All the same, she is a child, a child who constantly loses her mittens, or feeds them to the monster that lives underneath Montréal. In the sewers, apparently.’

‘We will not encourage her to wear the gloves,’ Pat agrees. ‘Monsters in the sewers?’

‘She has her head in the clouds like her father, yes?’ says Marie-France, teasing.

‘Oh, but there are monsters in the sewers,’ says Pat.

‘Ah, so you are the one who is going out at lunch tomorrow and buying Billie a new pair of mittens,’ Marie-France informs him. Billie can wear her last year’s mittens tomorrow morning. One of them has a hole in the thumb, but Billie can keep her hands in her pockets.

‘We could both go,’ Pat say. He kisses the back of Marie-France’s neck. ‘And have lunch?’

‘It’s a date,’ says Marie-France, because it’s either that or admit she can’t find her gloves either. She can pick up a pair tomorrow when they’re out.

Pat gets up to get a them each a glass of water and turn off the overhead light. Marie-France drinks half of water before setting the glass on the bedside table and resting her head against Pat’s arm.

‘Why us?’ she asks. It’s a conversation they’ve had before about the gloves. ‘Do you think they’re like that for everybody?’ Another question that’s come up more than once. Marie-France can feel Pat shrug. ‘I am not going around letting strange people wear my gloves,’ he says. It’s an answer they’ve both given more than once. Marie-France has come to accept the gloves as just one of those things. The sun rises. She would kill a man for her husband and daughter. Pat’s gloves fit her and Pat. And, apparently, Billie.

‘Maybe it’s a family thing,’ says Marie-France. Pat hums. Marie-France follows her thread of a thought to its logical conclusion. ‘Do you think they would fit the other kids?’

‘Ah,’ says Pat. ‘If that’s the current theory—’ here Marie-France kicks him lightly, because yes, it’s the current theory. As of five minutes ago when Marie-France thought of it, it’s the current theory. ‘—then yes,’ Pat finishes. ‘They are family too, are they not?’

They’re talking about their skaters, of course, the disparate teams who have approached them to train at Gadbois and are accepted based on their commitment to the same values as Marie-France and Pat. Teamwork, and a commitment to excellence. A willingness to challenge and be challenged. And always, of course, trust.

‘Absolutely they are,’ agrees Marie-France.

 

Marie-France’s hypothesis about the gloves is proven right the next day. She and Pat watch from the boards as Tessa and Scott run through the straight line lift from their free dance, incorporating Marie-France’s changes to the choreography. Marie-France has Pat’s gloves in one hand, absently tapping them against the other in time to the music playing in her head.

She’d overslept that morning and Pat was extremely smug about it for several reasons, so it wasn’t so much that she didn’t have time to look for her gloves as she stole Pat’s in retaliation. He has other pairs, one of which he is wearing right now. He’ll survive.  The new piece of choreography had come to her last night when she was dancing with Pat at the gala. It comes and goes on the ice, embodied by Tessa and Scott, and Marie-France lets out the breath she’d been holding. Yes. It will work. Tessa will need to work on arm placement and Scott on hand placement, and their transitions are very rough, but Marie-France is pleased. She watches as Scott sets Tessa down on the ice, one hand spread across her back and the other snug around her waist. He settles his hands on Tessa’s hips before reluctantly letting go, because that boy is not at all subtle. She trades a look with Pat. Her husband is smiling his nostalgic smile, and this is yet another of her very favourite Pat smiles. She knows he’s thinking the same thing she is, about how they too had tried to hide their relationship from everyone when it was fragile and new.

Then Tessa and Scott skate over, Tessa’s hand resting on Scott’s lower back the whole time. Marie-France can tell Tessa is unsure about her execution of the new choreography when she doesn’t immediately ask for feedback. She’ll get there; Marie-France knows she will get there, but for the time being Tessa reaches for one of the gloves Marie-France is still holding, telling Marie-France how pretty they are and asking if she may. Marie-France nods, amused, and Tessa practically grabs the gloves out of her hand. She examines them. ‘The stitching is exquisite,’ she announces, slipping one of the gloves on and holding up her hand. ‘And they fit me perfectly,’ she says, a faint frown appearing on her face even as her voice remains cheerful, as if some part of her remembers that Marie-France’s hands are larger than her own, and so the gloves should not, in fact, fit. Marie-France’s gaze drifts to Pat’s face and she wonders if her expression is the same as his: bewildered, but so soft and so proud. Scott ribs Tessa about stealing Marie-France’s gloves, however temporarily, and Tessa ribs Scott about his truly awful fleece pullover, and Marie-France reaches for her husband’s hand and squeezes tightly.

If the gloves are trying to tell her and Pat who matters most to them, they already know. She chose Pat for her very own years and years ago, and he chose her back. And though she and Pat were only ever able to have Billie, she figured out a long time ago that the elderly gentleman with the wavering smile and crimson waistcoat who sold her Pat’s gloves all those years ago was right. She and Pat do have a big family, as big as all the skaters they’ve ever coached at Gadbois. ‘As large as our love for each other,’ Pat murmurs, because of course Marie-France had told him everything the man had said. Marie-France puts her arm about Pat, presses her hand into his back. ‘As large as our love for each other,’ she agrees.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Patrice Lauzon wore some gloves at Canadian Nationals and Marie-France Dubreuil wore some gloves at Europeans and the familyhood of the travelling (henchmen) gloves had to become a thing, me and @/dubreuillauzon don’t make the rules.
> 
> Find me on Twitter: @/mfparaph


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